Daddy Long Stroke by Cairo Page B

funny. You know that, right?”
    â€œMmm-hmm,” she says, gettin’ up from her seat, headin’ toward the stairs. “Let me go put something else on. I’ll be right back.”
    â€œWhew!” I joke. “Thank Gawd! ’Cause for a minute there, I thought I was gonna hafta start tossin’ dollars atcha.”
    She stops, slams her hand on her hip, pretendin’ she’s ’bout to bring it to me. “You must want me to whoop your ass up in here. I taught you better than that. You better try twenties and up.”
    I laugh. “Ma, you crazy for real, word up.” She waves me on. And I smile, shakin’ my head as she heads up the stairs.
Pops got his hands full wit’ her
, I think.

 8 
    Moms comes back down wearin’ a pair of powder-blue Baby Phat sweats that cling to her hips and a white Baby Phat T-shirt. I blink, tiltin’ my head. Now, either Moms been hittin’ the gym e’ery day doin’ squats ’n shit, or she’s been hidin’ her body. ’Cause on some real shit, I didn’t know she was stackin’ cakes like that. I shake my head.
    â€œYou hungry?” she asks, switchin’ past me.
    I jump up from my seat. She doesn’t hafta say another word. After all the fuckin’ and tree smokin’ I did earlier, I’m starvin’. And Pops didn’t have shit up in his spot to tie me over. I started to hit St. Georges Avenue and swing by that US Fried Chicken spot over in Linden on my way here to pick up a chicken snack. I’m glad I didn’t.
    â€œYou already know,” I say, followin’ her through the dinin’ room into the kitchen. “What you cook?”
    â€œI made some barbecue chicken, mac ’n cheese and fried cabbage,” she says, openin’ up the cabinet and pullin’ down a plate. I take a seat and watch her as she shuffles ’round the kitchen fixin’ my plate. She sticks it in the microwave. “You want something to drink?”
    â€œYeah, I’ll get it,” I say, gettin’ up.
    She waves me on. “Sit. What do you want? Cranberry or grape juice, Sprite or water?”
    â€œCranberry juice.”
    She grabs a glass, then pours the juice to the rim. I smile. I don’t care how old I get, Moms still waits on me. The only thing she won’t do is my laundry. Once I started havin’ wet dreams and nuttin’ in my drawers, she said I was on my own.
    When the microwave stops, she brings me my drink and plate, then pulls out a chair and sits ’cross from me. She watches me as I bite into one of the chicken breasts. Damn! I lick my fingers and lips, then shovel a mouthful of cabbage in my mouth. “Mmmmmm. This is good as hell. You really did your thing, Ma, word up.”
    She playfully swats at me. “What I tell you about talking with your mouth full.” She leans forward, placin’ her elbows on the table, restin’ her chin on her closed fists. “So, tell me. Besides chasing skirts, what else have you been up to? Have you found a job yet?”
    I shake my head. “I’m not lookin,” I calmly answer, takin’ a sip of my drink. I set the glass down, then finish eatin’.
    â€œWhy not? Don’t you think you should be? I know you’re not paying for all of those designer clothes, expensive shoes, and that car note and mortgage with just your looks.”
    Nah, these looks get me in the door. It’s this big ole dick that gets me in them wallets.
    She shakes her head as if she read my thoughts. “Hmmph. Don’t you think it’s time you grow up, and start taking life serious? The world can’t always be your playground. And whatever little money you have left in the bank isn’t gonna last you forever.”
    I sigh. I knew this was comin’. She thinks a grown man should be responsible enough to find a job and keep a job. And make his own paper. I agree, if